Sheknewbetter. Ravenna fumed.
She might have been a single strand in a grand tapestry, but there had to be a way to unravel herself free—from themall.
Medici, Luni, and the pope.
“What has happened to you?” Fortuna hissed, leaning toward her. “You look terrible. Why on earth are you sweating?”
“I told you I was feeling ill,” Ravenna said dully.
Fortuna thrust a napkin in her lap. “Wipe your face and smile.”
Ravenna forced a smile. Shock had settled into her bones; she couldn’t seem to stop shaking. From fear. From disappointment. From anger. She gripped the stem of her wine goblet, letting herself melt into her fury.
And now she needed to act. She glanced at the terrace doors. They hadn’t returned yet. Good, it gave her time to think. She dropped her gaze to her lap, played with the corner of her napkin, and brushed her finger along the silver stitching as she considered what to do next. Midnight was fast approaching. She glanced again at the doors leading out to the garden in time to see the men return.
Signor Sforza strode toward the banquet table. He was alone, the others returning to their seats. Servants began piling food onto their plates, pouring wine into their goblets. Now was her chance. Ravenna stood, but she went to the other end instead of walking directly toward Signor Sforza. That man liked to chase, and she mustn’t make it too easy for him.
She only had to wait one minute.
Signor Sforza came to stand next to her, placing a light hand around her waist. She stiffened but didn’t draw away from him. Her eyes went to the clock. It was almost time to leave. He stared at her with a gleam that was both hungry and gleeful. His time with her had come and he meant to enjoy every second of it.
Ravenna fought her revulsion. She smiled.
“It’s time for our dance, isn’t it?” he asked.
She shook her head, the pope’s letter swirling in her mind. Dark ink on cream paper, the words sprawling and taking up too much room. For some unaccountable reason, her heart shattered at the thought of betraying Saturnino. She forced herself to think of the task at hand.
Ponte Vecchio at midnight.
She was to lure this vile man out in the cold for a meeting, to a bridge that crossed over the icy Arno. Ravenna could easily picture the pope’s mysterious courtier. He would present Signor Sforza with a choice that wasn’t really a choice. And as the river desperately churned beneath his feet, so would his thoughts churn in his mind.
Like Ravenna, he would not refuse whatever offer the pope made.
Signor Sforza looked at her in amusement. “Have you changed your mind about the dance, then?”
“I have, yes,” she said. “Forgive me, I believe the evening has worn me down.” A long table laden with bowls of chilled white wine stood on the wall facing the dance floor. Signor Sforza followed the line of her gaze and said, “Allow me to bring you a glass, signorina.”
His hand rose to curl around the back of her neck, inching her closer to the long line of his body.
“The family will see,” she whispered.
“The family will make no objections,” Signor Sforza said. “Unless you have them?”
Ravenna gritted her teeth and shook her head. He beamed at her, and she allowed him to lead her to the beverage table, allowed him to place a glass of wine in her hand. She even permitted him to stand even closer to her side, the toes of his polished boots brushing up against her gown.
“Curious,” he said, frowning in the direction of the banquet table.
“What, signore?”
“Well, I wanted to compliment your work,” he said. “But someone removed the statue from the table.”
Ravenna glanced in the direction of the table; the space where her bozzetto had been was now empty. “Curious.”
“Do you still not want to dance?”
She shook her head. “Still no.”
He took a long sip, and said, “Is there something you’d like to do instead?”
